You never expected your first time to be like this, in a dirty, broken-down subway train under the muffled booms of thunder that you can even now hear from far above. With the man you love, you expected the first time to be softer, sweeter, in a bed with your eyes locked and no pain, just sweet bliss. You expected certain things that clichés have taught you to come to expect. Whether you wanted them or not, you expected the trappings of a hundred books and movies and cookie-cutter stories about what is Right and Normal and Good.
You did not expect a persistent, over-eager boyfriend (Boyfriend? Really? Oh, that it could be so simple...) or being trapped in an empty train car. You did not expect him to not take “no” for an answer. You expected at the very least that he would face you, not that he would push you up against the cold metal of the subway doors and take you without your say-so.
You grimace through the window as his cock splits you. It hurts, it hurts more than you thought it would, spit being an inadequate lubrication, especially for a first time, and the preparation having been hasty and cursory. You wince at the scraping, almost sensual pain of it, and open your mouth to tell him to stop, but all you can manage is a strangled moan.
You can’t tell him how much you wanted this, how much you’ve dreamed of humiliation and shame. You keep the truth clutched tightly against your chest, like a secret; you can never tell him how, even as you hate him for doing this to you, you wish at the same time that the train was full of people, watching you, seeing you being taken so brutally. In your mind you can feel their eyes on you, and you can’t ever tell him how hard it makes you, imagining a crowd of witnesses to the rape of your innocence.
But somehow, he seems to know. You hear his breathless voice in your ear, “Want me to fuck you against the connecting door? Let the passengers in the other cars see you? They’re probably bored sitting there, with the storm stopping the train and all. Would you like to give them a show?”
You groan and shake your head, even as the thought turns you on. He laughs at you, harshly, and drives his hips against you, probing deeper, bringing prickling pain-tears to your eyes. You cry out as you’re slammed against the doors, hair falling into your eyes as your head is thrown forward.
You expected at least skin, at least nudity, at least some indication of vulnerability from your lover, not your pants around your ankles and his barely undone, belt unbuckled and fly unzipped just far enough to allow his cock to find its way into you.
Your own name is a hoarse murmur in your ear, warm breath wafting across your cheek.
“Please…” Your own choked cry, wanting to tell him to stop, wanting to tell him to push harder, wanting to tell him to humiliate you, push you up against that connecting door and fuck your brains out, but never, ever wanting to tell him that.
And then suddenly, a flickering of lights in the car as the power returns and a sudden jolt as the train begins to move again. Your teacher pulls out of you suddenly, with no warning, and grabs your arm, yanking you backwards, down the aisle. He sits in the corner on one of the dark plastic, booth-style seats and reaches down, tugging up your pants until they are around your hips once more, then tugging down again on the back, until there is just enough exposed…
He pulls you down by the hips, sitting you on top of his rigid member, and you can’t help crying out as your anus parts and stretches, accommodating him more willingly than you could ever admit. You shudder as you feel him go deep, deep inside you, settling into your innards almost peacefully.
It’s late at night, far too late for there to be many travelers about, especially with the storm. You wonder for a moment why your lover has suddenly grabbed up a discarded newspaper and is holding it in front of both of you, pretending to read. But then suddenly you don’t have to wonder as the doors slide open with a hiss and a tired-looking woman steps onto the train, collapsing into a seat nearby.
You heart pounds in your ears—thump thump thump—and you know you’re blushing. Surely you won’t get away with this, surely the woman must think it odd to see a sixteen-year-old boy sitting on the lap of a full-grown, if young, adult. But her eyes have closed, and she seems almost to have drifted off.
A sharp movement, and you clench your teeth, barely managing to close them on a surprised yelp. He has begun moving again, sharp upward jabs of his hips that only now start to hit you in a place that makes your body tremble.
Tears trickle down your cheeks as the mechanical voice announces that the doors are closing, and disinterestedly informs you of the next stop. The rhythmic movements continue as the train resumes its motion, and you wonder how the man inside you can be so calm, so nonchalant, pretending to read the newspaper as he fucks you. He even takes a chance and closes the paper enough to turn the page, but the woman’s eyes are closed and she doesn’t catch the quick glimpse of his dick disappearing into you, before the paper is opened again.
She leaves at the next stop, and when the two of you are alone again your lover abandons all pretense and rolls your bodies over, bending you over the edge of the seat and pounding viciously into your anus. You cry out loudly now, wondering if the passengers in the other cars can see you, wondering if they’re even still there, hoping they can, wishing they’re not.
Your fingers fumble with your pants and underwear, shaking digits at least coherent enough to pull them down to your knees so that when you come, bucking helplessly beneath him, you don’t mess up your clothing too badly.
He thrusts into you a few more times, making you writhe in over-stimulated agony, and then he comes inside you, not bothering to pull out, filling you with the strangest sensation of sloshing liquid, chuckling to himself as his hips drive him as deep as possible inside you for the last few pulses.
You both lie more or less unmoving for another two stops, before he pulls out of you and tries to make you both presentable to get off the train. When you finally step shakily onto the platform nearest his apartment there is already a stain on the back of your pants that you can feel widening, but it is past midnight and he walks barely a step behind you the whole way, so no one can see what he’s done to you.
There is nothing but your heart and your thoughts left to you during the walk back. You want to scream at him, to cry, to thank him for doing this to you. You wished he had waited, and you’re glad he didn’t. You’re ashamed to have been forced and aroused to have been shamed. When he gets you back to his apartment, you attempt to make sense of these thoughts in words, giving him a few broken phrases that were works in progress, words that probably shouldn’t have been spoken until they were finished, more thoughtfully crafted.
It doesn’t matter, though. What he hears is “yes,” because that is what he wants to hear. And here, in his apartment, your second time is more like you expected your first time to be, with a soft bed and proper lube and helpless passion and his eyes, smirking and smoldering, boring into your own.